Guiding Light
by ripsofftricks
Summary: The problem had started to ferment and it had gone on far too long.


**This may be the last fic I may have the chance to write, finish, edit, get my beta and upload it in a long while. Over here, school has started and I am absolutely swamped with work. I'll still continue writing of course but it's highly unlikely that I'll be finishing anything in the next few weeks. **

**Oh and I honestly thought I'd be writing a Supernatural fic next but things didn't work out that way. If you're reading this, you probably know the Sherlock fandom and if you're reading this and you have no idea... I'd encourage you to read on? But if you think it's really bad then just close the browser because I don't want to be responsible for someone hating such a great pairing like Sherlock/John.  
**

* * *

_1. Pure hearts, stumble_

"I cannot believe you."

Those words were uttered with disgust before John had backed away and stomped up the stairs, the door closing with a slam. The reaction was expected, Sherlock thought as he listened to the rustle and thumping up in John's room in curiosity. John always reacted in such a fashion whenever Sherlock clarified himself in the most brutal but efficient way possible.

He was no hero and he never will be.

Not long after, he perked up at the sound of John's bedroom door opening and his heavy footsteps. Sherlock's chest did a weird little twist of sorts, leaving him quite uncomfortable. He could predict what was about to happen and every single consequence. That feeling only worsened when John set a large suitcase on the carpet.

There was a long moment when they just looked at each other. Words bubbled up to the surface but neither could find the voice to speak. There was nothing to be said. Sherlock had been expecting this consequence; it was inevitable and it became a question of time. The tension had been rising for months now, and when there were no cases to elevate the stress, the atmosphere would become thick and stagnant.

The problem had started to ferment and it had gone on far too long.

It had been so perfect at the start, each understand the other's quirks. But recently, it was like a switch had been flipped. Tempers were short, there were long and drawn-out quarrels and Sherlock had taken to digging up John's sore spots to poke at, anything to gain the upper hand.

But this was it. John had given Sherlock an ultimatum. It was at best, a manipulation, at worst, it was a dirty trick. Because John knew that Sherlock would never back down, he would never apologise and inadvertently admit that he wanted John to stay. He had his pride and his pride was worth more than John. And the sad thing was Sherlock was playing right into John's trap.

For some reason, the thought incited a large flood of betrayal in Sherlock. It was nasty with it rushing through him in torrents. The feeling was absurd in its logic. John had never come so close for him to actually feel betrayed, and yet. He did.

But maybe it was time for a break for the both of them. Sherlock didn't need John. And if the man decided that he wanted leave, so be it. He could do as he pleased. Sherlock was not going to grovel for John to stay, he wasn't needed and after some time, he wouldn't be wanted either. But the curiosity persisted and for old time's sake, Sherlock decided to inquire.

"You're leaving. Where?"

The voice was a crack in the silence that had risen between the both of them. Sherlock mentally chided himself at the idiocy of the question asked, the answer was so obvious.

"You tell me, Sherlock," John replied, hands tightening on the handle of his suitcase.

Sherlock didn't even need a second to find the answer. John's twitch in his hand was gone, which meant that he was excited, which eradicated the possibility of the quarrel being staged or that John had this trip planned. He had no idea where to go, just that he had to.

"I don't think you even know."

There was no reply.

"Does this mean that I'd need to find a new flatmate?" Sherlock asked. It came out a little more biting than he had intended, and the look on John's face showed that it had not gone unnoticed.

John stared back at Sherlock. He frowned deeply before answering, "No, I have the rent for the next few months saved up; I might be back by then." Sherlock could hear the unspoken part of that sentence ringing in his head, _if I come back at all._

"Goodbye."

_2. In my hands, they crumble_

There were three children and one adult dead, altogether, four victims in different parts of central London. Sherlock contemplated the possibility of two murderers running around on the streets of the city. Plausible but not impossible; he needed more data.

The police, as usual, were being awfully dense, and for a passing moment Sherlock wondered if they were doing this deliberately. Surely nobody could be that vacant? They didn't seem to appreciate his clever deductions that, frankly, were really quite obvious. It wasn't nearly as much fun without an audience.

No, this wasn't much fun at all.

Sherlock missed the occasional compliment that would pass John's lips. It made him feel special, like he was someone to be grateful for, instead of the residential sociopath that popped up whenever a few people decided to wander off and get themselves murdered. Sherlock preferred the awe and amusement in John's eyes to Lestrade's look of reluctance.

Much less the irritated looks from around the room.

"Where's Dr Watson?" Lestrade asked, hovering over Sherlock.

Trying to calm the sharp prick of annoyance, Sherlock didn't answer, content to study the dead boy left in his school uniform, remnants of blood still visible under the soil and grit. He could feel questioning eyes on his back as the absence of John was finally noticed and for now, Scotland Yard would just have to settle with idle gossip because Sherlock wasn't about to tell them anything.

Not honoured with an answer to his question, Lestrade looked even more confused and, Sherlock was quite pleased to note, worried. He wouldn't put it past a few of them to assume that Sherlock might have harmed John.

"Don't bother," the voice of Donovan piped up. Sherlock flicked a glance her way. She was just pottering around the back, with the rest of the team, looking on with more spite than usual.

Judging from the sudden disappearance of Anderson, not to mention the careless and sloppy attire of the Sergeant, Sherlock assumed that Donovan had broken it off with him. No doubt the tension must still be thick between them and that explained the less than curt nod that Sherlock had received at the scene.

Looking for answers in details reassured Sherlock.

"Dr Watson probably just found that running after some psychopath wasn't his true calling and ditched the Freak, like he should," Donovan said.

That statement struck a nerve that Sherlock had never knew he had.

Eyes flashing back to the apparently very smug Donovan, Sherlock smirked in contempt.

"Oh, and you probably also found that getting on your knees for a man who's always going to put his obese wife over you isn't very promising. I knew you'll see it one day, Sally."

Trying to hold back the flood of self-satisfaction at Donovan's stricken look, Sherlock turned his gaze back to the corpse before adding rather loudly, "And you're wrong. John's on holiday."

_3. Fragile and stripped to the core, I can't hurt you anymore_

There was no tea for him in the mornings.

Sherlock didn't sleep every night, preferring to check up on his experiments or lie on the sofa and stare at the walls, thoughts running through his head a mile a minute. Yet he liked the fact that every single morning, when John sleepily trudged down the stairs, he would get a cup of tea alongside the one John made for himself.

Sherlock never asked for it, he never thanked John for it, but every morning, his cup of tea would be set on the coffee table.

It was just another one of the observations in John's routine day in and day out; excluding the dangerous things Sherlock hauls him along for, of course. The little things that make John more, god forbid, endearing to Sherlock.

It wasn't till John left that Sherlock became aware of how much he really wanted the cup of tea.

John was just on holiday; he was coming back.

He had to.

_4. Loved by numbers_

If Sherlock wasn't so attached, he had half a mind to throw his violin against the wall with such velocity that it was sure to splinter. Tuning the strings, Sherlock drew back the bow again to give it another try.

Wrong.

The violin screeched and Sherlock threw it down in disgust. Normally, he would have preferred the shrieking to a smooth melody to aid in his thought processes. But there certainly was a problem when he couldn't even play a simple melody for his life.

The strings suddenly felt wrong under his calloused fingertips, and the tune would not sit right. He wasn't sure what he was more upset about at the moment; the fact that his violin had turned traitor, or the fact that he hadn't heard about any news from John in a month, eleven days, three hours, fifty-two minutes and counting.

If Sherlock hadn't already agreed with himself that he was barking mad, he would have to say that he was going insane.

That stupid, dull, boring, monotonous, thick and idiotically _human_ man that practically got him on his knees the way Sherlock just keeps alternating between two small and insignificant choices. The choices that Sherlock had already made the day John left for his impromptu holiday.

And yet, right now, Sherlock was wondering if he should have apologised to John and forget about his dignity for a minute, acknowledge that he had said something to upset the doctor and make it up to him.

That concept was so foreign.

No doubt, John had swallowed his anger many times regarding him, and maybe Sherlock should have done it just the once, if it was to keep John by his side.

However, John only compromised because he _needed_ Sherlock. He wanted and craved the danger and the hunt that no one other than Sherlock Holmes could offer him. Surely it was unreasonable to ask Sherlock to compromise when he wasn't in the same circumstances as him.

Scoffing, Sherlock flung himself onto the sofa. The thought that anybody could really need someone else was ridiculous. Nobody genuinely required a certain person. People just wanted human contact and affection, and since Sherlock disliked both, he was perfectly safe.

He just needed someone to make his tea.

John could go globe-trotting if he wished; Sherlock could just as easily find his replacement and even if he couldn't find a suitable substitute, which was highly unlikely, he would just have to learn how to live without. One mustn't indulge oneself too much.

He would put an ad out in the paper, and if it worked, Sherlock could start auditioning as soon as tomorrow. John would keep his room; he was still Sherlock's flatmate until he deemed fit to return or till his half of the rent money, which he had sent to Mrs Hudson via mail, ran out. But Sherlock would have a new partner, a new and improved version of John.

Sherlock blamed the twist in his gut to the excitement of it all.

_5. You're losing life's wonder_

"You are an absolute arse. Goodbye and good riddance!" Mr Kenneth Mosby, Sherlock's fifth candidate, spat, slamming the door shut behind him.

Sherlock was wondering if this was such a good idea at all. Judging by the others, Ken was already one of the more promising ones. He wasn't a doctor, which was a small downside. The fact that he didn't have a bullet wound in his shoulder and a psychosomatic limp was a shortcoming but Sherlock was willing to look past that.

Ken didn't take too kindly to Sherlock pointing out his obvious crush. Sherlock repeated the exact same thing that he had said to John, but it wasn't received quite as well. Perhaps Sherlock should have led the man on, if only for a little while. Sherlock had persuaded the man that he was really the best that he had interviewed so far.

The first had been Lestrade in disguise, speculating if Sherlock's ad in the papers were true. The second had a kink for necrophilia and Sherlock had dismissed him immediately; he didn't need someone trying to rape the evidence, dead or not. The third was just plain snarky; he remarked rather cruelly on Sherlock's skull and that had been the end of him. The fourth was one of Mycroft's minions; Sherlock was tempted to pour cyanide in lieu of tea.

The appearance of Ken was almost welcoming.

There must be at the very least a man who was willing to be his partner and resembled John! He had fans from his site. One of them had to be a predictable doctor who was tolerant of his ways. It shouldn't be this hard!

Sighing, Sherlock called the next candidate in.

_6. Touch like strangers; detached. I can't feel you anymore_

If this was how having your heart broken felt like, then Sherlock was right in shielding his emotions from everyone.

Never before had he felt helpless, and now the feeling of desperation is edging into his consciousness. Three months. It had been three whole months since John had left him and he was probably never coming back either. The house was constantly quiet and Sherlock's experiments have spread out into the sitting room, increasing in the number because of the lack of having anything else to do.

It must be getting to Sherlock quite badly if even the usually blind Lestrade could sense his recent depression. Sergeant Donovan had quite kindly dragged Anderson away from his sight on the latest crime scene and thus avoided what might be a very violent spectacle.

Solving felonies still held a small sort of comfort, assuring Sherlock that no matter what happened, he still had his mind. But even that small thought of arrogance had dampened somewhat with the pitying looks everyone had been shooting him these days.

Mycroft had already been in twice, much to Sherlock's displeasure; the first to ensure he was well and the second to tell him that John had applied for an extended visit in America.

Mrs Hudson kept hovering around him and asking him if he would want some tea. Which he didn't, by the way, if he did want tea, he'd make it himself. The wall was being peppered with bullets daily and Mrs Hudson had apparently gotten so concerned that she had actually let Sherlock do whatever he wanted. The milk had run out in the refrigerator and Sherlock had gotten sick of eating Chinese, preferring not to eat at all. His skull didn't reply when he ranted about things. His sleeping schedule was even more erratic and Sherlock hadn't got a wink of sleep in days.

Sherlock's brain was throbbing in his head, his heart was raging, his stomach was plotting mutiny and he couldn't lift his limbs. Blinking back the moisture in his eyes, Sherlock forced himself to smile, even if it hurt, and laugh at how pathetic he's being. There was no logical reason why he should be reduced to this. He had lived his life perfectly well before Dr John Watson and there was no explanation why he shouldn't be able to function without him.

A few seconds, every day, the answer to his question would flash in his head like a beacon. But Sherlock couldn't admit it. He wouldn't admit it. He…

"I miss you."

Now Sherlock's talking to himself (not even to his skull), speaking aloud at the walls, mumbling at the ceiling. If there was a level beyond insanity, Sherlock would be sitting on its throne. But it's like he was rewinding back to three months ago and Sherlock knew exactly what he should've said when John was tugging his luggage out the front door.

"I love you. Come back to me, John Watson, and never leave."

Suddenly, the room wasn't spinning in front of his eyes in whorls of colour. With every word, Sherlock felt better and he could hear himself breathe again. The burn in his chest increased to a scorch but at least the weight on his shoulders had disappeared. Crazy or not, this was relief.

Fatigue washed over Sherlock and he finally succumbed to darkness.

_7. The sunshine trapped in our hearts, It could rise again_

"Come back to London, Dr Watson."

Mycroft's tinny voice over the receiver still managed to convey the very threatening message under his deceptively polite order. Mrs Hudson had already spent five trans-Atlantic calls to plead for John's return. There's no reason why he should obey just because Mycroft decided to intervene.

He was in America right now, New York actually. He had rather thought that the people had an inflated ego and a prideful impression of themselves, but the ones that he had met so far were nothing but nice, albeit a little haughty. Harry said it was because Yanks were crazy over the British accent and John was inclined to agree.

It wasn't perfect. The cheap motels came with their flaws and defects, and the people quite often talked like they had a potato in their mouths, but at least he was handling the lack of excitement well. Every day, John would walk out of his motel and take the subway to a different place, and he would wander around until he was hopelessly lost. He would then spend the rest of the day panicking and trying to find his way back with limited funds. It wasn't the best solution but at least he was never bored.

It was so easy to get lost in New York.

The city was so bright. New York never slept and the view at night from a high place was magnificent, tiny lights glittering against the sky. London wasn't quite so much as busy.

But it was still home.

Despite it all, John always found his thoughts back at Baker Street. He had to stop himself calling or emailing Sherlock. There was once when he had been close to buying a red-eye flight back. Yet he always managed to stop in time and steel himself against the itch to return.

He couldn't keep dropping everything whenever Sherlock texted him. He couldn't keep cancelling and standing up his dates just because Sherlock decided that he was needed. John had a life.

He had to have a life outside of the man.

It wasn't when Sherlock had been in one of his moods and viciously attacked him that John had realised exactly what he was throwing himself into.

It was so easy to just let himself run up the cliff but it was the keeping away from the edge that was hard. John was falling hard, so hard for the man that had made it clear from the start that he had no intention to ever pursue a romantic dalliance. John had to pull himself back before he got hurt. Because when Sherlock finally rejected him once and for all, it wouldn't just injure his feelings. No, it would break him. Their platonic relationship would never be the same again and sooner or later, Sherlock would find another one to marvel at his genius, and then, he wouldn't need John anymore.

"Sorry, but I can't," John replied, annoyance tinting his tone.

"Before you make a snap decision based on your flimsy predictions, you should listen to this recording, doctor. Maybe it would aid you in making a choice that would benefit everybody."

John's interest was piqued, but he was doubtful that anything played would have a real chance in bringing him back to England. There was a click as a recording started playing, white noise seemed to be the only sound for awhile before a familiar voice flooded John's ear.

"_I miss you._

_I love you._

_Come back to me, John Watson, and never leave."_

John's eyes widened and he inhaled sharply, clutching to the phone like a lifeline. It was Sherlock's voice, and it was his name and how, why, when, where?

"I bugged Sherlock's apartment, waiting for the moment when he finally surrenders. He may seem stoic but nevertheless, I can read him like an open book. He wants you back, Dr Watson, and he has been tearing himself apart for the past two weeks wondering why. We both know that he's no sociopath, whatever he may claim. He had been protecting himself all these years and you, John, are the only one who had unknowingly got under that armour.

I will not let you hurt him."

John's hands were clammy and he was having trouble holding the phone up, let alone to formulate a suitable answer. "Prove that he really means that. Prove it to me."

Mycroft's response was short, hanging up immediately after, leaving John with the dial tone, sitting on his bed in a motel.

"I can't."

_8. But I'm lost, crushed, cold and confused with no guiding light left inside_

Looking at his phone, Sherlock flung it disgustedly away. Seven calls, all from Mycroft. Like the eighth is going to make a difference in his reaction. Besides, his brother should know better. He didn't like calls, unnecessary things when words would convey the same point much faster.

His phone rang with the alert for a received text. Picking it up again, Sherlock read the message that Mycroft seemed so urgent to give him.

_Look out the window. I expect you to be back at Mummy's for Christmas dinner this year without any fuss. Bring the doctor if you wish._

Intrigued, Sherlock ran to the window, pulling apart the dark curtains to stare out at the street. The street was deserted, fallen leaves sticking to the wet pavement after the short drizzle. There was, however, a man dressed in a fuzzy jumper, lugging an ugly brown suitcase heading down the street.

John.

_You were my guiding light_

The End.

* * *

**The separating lyrics are Guiding Light by Muse, I don't own them. Story initially written because of The Chain by Ingrid Michaelson. There's a Sherlock/John fanvid with this song as the backing with the title: On A Vacation... Well, something like that.**

**Just a note, even if this has become unreliable, my next story could be in the Muse fandom but since this website doesn't support RPS then... yeah. Oh and about my Hetalia stories, there's no guarantees that I will not write another one but there's no assurances that I will. It's a chance thing. Quite a long time till I'll write again. Sorry.**


End file.
